


when you want to escape, say the word

by luciferinasundaysuit



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferinasundaysuit/pseuds/luciferinasundaysuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson makes his move, grabbing Zito by the wrist and dragging him against his chest. Zito goes willingly, like he was expecting it. He probably was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you want to escape, say the word

**Author's Note:**

> Set circa 2008 when Zito and Wilson were living together. Title from "Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You" by The Arctic Monkeys.

Morning in the off season means that they don’t have anywhere to be, not until they kill themselves running up and down hills all afternoon. Wilson's idea. Always Wilson's idea.

They eat breakfast in an easy, “we fucked until I thought we might fall apart last night and I’m still tired but damn you’re a good lay” silence. Zito reaches for sugar for his coffee, but Wilson kicks his ankle under the table to remind him that they don’t eat that shit anymore. Zito grunts and drinks it black. 

Wilson tries and fails not to look smug. Zito doesn't really mind. Smug's a pretty good look on him.

When they finish eating, they both gather up their dishes and put them in the sink. Wilson leans back, hips against the counter and back against the cabinets, watching Zito wash the dishes because it’s his damn turn, even if he thinks Zito does it wrong. Wilson washes each dish individually, but Zito washes them all in a sink full of soapy water, which Wilson thinks is entirely incorrect and not entirely effective, but he respects Zito’s right to his dish washing process. 

Besides, Wilson figures that if he gets to do, well, pretty much everything he ever does, Zito gets to wash the dishes wrong. It's a miracle that they ever wash dishes at all, much less have opinions on the correct way to do so.

Sunlight is coming in through the window and falling over Zito's face like a complete cliche, which doesn't make the way he looks any less appealing. His hair wants cutting. It's at the perfect length to tug now, falling down over his neck in the back and into his eyes in the front. 

Water splashes up against his stomach when a fork slips through his fingers and lands in the water. Wilson tracks the trail of the beads as they roll down into his pajama pants.

Zito puts the dishes in the drying rack and dries his hands on the dish towel, rolling his eyes when he notices Wilson watching him. Wilson makes his move, grabbing Zito by the wrist and dragging him against his chest. Zito goes willingly, like he was expecting it. He probably was. 

Wilson kisses Zito’s jaw, dragging his teeth just a little. He presses a kiss to his cheek softly, then nips at his earlobe. He nuzzles from Zito's ear down to his collarbone and back, grinning into his shoulder when he feels him shiver. Zito sighs almost inaudibly and tilts his head back to give Wilson more room. 

He wraps his arms around Wilson's neck and turns them around so he’s leaning against the cabinets and Wilson’s leaning into him. They're the same size, but Zito likes it when Wilson makes him feel smaller.

Wilson puts his hands on Zito’s hips, running his thumbs over the bones and down into the waistband of his sweatpants then up over his sides and back. They’re both shirtless and barefoot and sleepy, bodies warm and hair a mess. 

Zito gets one hand into Wilson’s hair and tugs him into a real kiss, and another, and another. Wilson brings his knee up in between Zito’s legs, and Zito rocks down against him, then shoves his thigh in between Wilson's legs. 

"Fuck, you feel good," Zito whispers. 

Those are the first words either of them has spoken since "good morning."

Wilson presses his lips to Zito's forehead.

"'s what I like to hear," he replies.

Zito bring his other hand up to clutch at Wilson’s shoulder, right over his dragon tattoo. They move against each other in a slow grind, legs slotted together and arms wrapped around each other tightly. 

Everything’s slow and fuzzy at the edges, completely lacking in urgency but not in intent. 

They have all morning. They have forever. They have as long as they need.


End file.
